"Arkady and Boris Strugatsky. The Final Circle of Paradise (англ.)" - читать интересную книгу автора

"You still don't have Danish pickles... didn't I ask you
to get some?"
"Go to hell," said the driver absent-mindedly.
The woman was stunned. Her face slowly turned crimson.
"How dare you!" she hissed.
The driver looked at her bullishly.
"You heard what I said. Get out of here!"
"Don't you dare!" said the woman. "What is your number?"
"My number is ninety-three," said the driver,
"Ninety-three - is that clear enough? And I spit on all of
you. Is that clear? Any other questions?"
"What a hooliganism!" said the woman with dignity. She
took two cans of delicacies, scanned the counter, and with
great precision, ripped the cover off the Cosmic Man
magazine. "I'll remember you, number ninety-three! These aren't
the old times for you." She wrapped the two cans in the cover.
"We'll see each other in the municipal court."
I took a firm hold on the driver's arm. His rigid muscles
gradually relaxed.
"The nerve!" said she majestically and departed.
She stepped along the sidewalk, proudly carrying her
handsome head, which was topped with a high cylindrical
coiffure. She stopped at the corner, opened one of the cans,
and proceeded to pick out chunks with elegant fingers.
I released the driver's arm.
"They ought to be shot," he said suddenly. "We ought to
strangle them instead of dispensing pretty books to them." He
turned toward me, and I could see his eyes were tortured.
"Shall I deliver your books?"
"Well, no," I said. "Where will I put them?"
"In that case, shove off," said the driver. "Did you take
your Mintz? Then go and wrap your dirty pantaloons in it."
He climbed up into the cab. Something clicked and the back
door began to rise. You could hear everything crashing and
rolling inside the van. Several books and some shiny packets,
boxes, and cans fell on the pavement. The rear panel had not
yet closed completely when the driver shut his door and the van
took off with a jerk.
The girls had already disappeared. I stood alone on the
empty street and watched the wind lazily turn the pages of
History of Fascism at my feet. Later a gang of kids in striped
shorts came around the corner. They walked by silently, hands
stuck in their pockets. One jumped down on the pavement and
began to kick a can of pineapple, with a slick pretty cover,
like a football down the street.

Chapter SIX

On the way home, I was overtaken by the change of shifts.
The streets filled up with cars. Controller copters appeared